Natural Born Hero
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: Age 8: his parents are killed before his eyes. Age 26: he emerges as one of the greatest heroes in history. What about the years between those? Here's a story about how the boy became a legend. It's not the mask, it's not the training: it's the spirit.


Hi, there!

So, I'm finally publishing the first chapter of a story I had in my mind for a looooong time. You see, as the big bat-fan I've been my whole life, I always find interesting the stories that take us back in time and give us a glimpse of Bruce Wayne's journey until he became, well, the greatest hero ever: Batman.

I think it's pretty intriguing that an eight-years-old traumatized by his parents' death ends up as the bravest man in the world, just like is incredible how a brilliant millionaire chose, of all things, to fight crime in a giant bat outfit. "It's just a comic book!", you'll say. Yeah, yeah, but just because it's a comic book doesn't mean that the interesting idea behind the questions – from scared little boy to superhero – shouldn't be told.

Anyway, we have lots of tales about Bruce's past in DC Universe, and here I am, just trying to give it a shot. In few words, I want to explore difficulties and challenges our hero must have faced, including some hard choices that might have contributed to turn the boy into man – and what a man! Also, as the title might have hinted, I ask you now: is a hero born a hero or is heroism something that grows with and into you? This is, for me, a great question when we think about Batman… Here's a guy that has natural talent and motivation – and yet, I'm guessing it won't be easy for him anyway.

Now, a few things: first, I would like to say that, although the story begins and takes place most of the time in a private school, I don't intend to exam in details, or even criticize this kind of institution. This is merely a fiction, and in no way I think any real life private schools are like the one I describe here. This is not supposed to be a faithful picture of teen years in prep schools, but rather the scenario I wrote from my personal ideas, with no factual relation with real life. The name I chose for the school, "Pencey", is a reference to "The Catcher in The Rye", a book I love, but the coincidences stop there – oh, well, I used the name of the town close to the school also, but that's all.

The books "Men of Mathematics" and "1984" are real books, as most of you probably know; they sure worth reading, if you have the chance. Most references I used about them can easily be found in the net, if you get interested in knowing more.

Finally, I must say that most characters in the Pencey are created by me, although you might recognize, for example, the name "Vreeland" (even Veronica Vreeland) from Batman TAS. Robert Queen, of course, is who you think it is, and DC's property, just like Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred, The Sensei, Nanda Parbat, and probably a few more. I'm not making any money with this story, so, hopefully, they won't mind me using a few characters…

Well, that's all. Have fun, read, review (please, review!), and forgive me for my grammar mistakes – English is a foreign language for me, blah, blah, blah, you know the deal.

And see you around, fellow readers and writers! ENJOY!

AliaAtreidesBr

* * *

"_There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it."_

**Oscar Wilde**

* * *

**Chapter One: Pencey**

"_The world only exists in your eyes. You can make it as big or as small as you want"_

**Francis Scott Fitzgerald**

Excerpt from Thomas Wayne's diary:

_"I look at you, my son, and wonder what kind of man you will turn into… Because you are a Wayne, I fear you might think, at some point, that you have it all. Yes, money can have that effect on people, especially if you add to that the notoriety of our family here in Gotham, or the looks you have inherited – obviously – from your mother._

_And yet, I know in my heart you are better than that, Bruce. You are a good person, even as a child. I see how you take as yours other people pain… how your are honest in everything, and how you have such a __mature sense of justice, even though you are no more than a little boy. _

_I'm always so proud of you, son." _

* * *

Another night on the roof.

He hated everything about the Pencey; his snob colleagues, the arrogant teachers, the misplaced rules, the feeling that consumed him ever since he got there, a few months ago; the feeling he had that all this was a waste of time… Oh, yes, he hated everything about the Pencey.

Or _almost_ everything…

Bruce loved the view from the rooftop.

The habit was born in his second night at the school. It started as a fortuitous adventure, an idea he had in the middle of a sleepless night. He went to the window, and realized his dormitory had quite a view, the ancient edification that was built on high ground, and from where he could see the entire school, and the shapes of the city a few miles East. It was only a small town called Angerstown, a pale shade of his home Gotham, but, still, a nice view.

_"And from above"_, he thought, _"it's probably better."_

Had always been a good climber. In fact, had a love for heights. After the death of his parents, everything bellow looked so dark and treacherous, and he just got into this strange habit of putting himself as far as possible of the ground.

He liked to keep himself close to the night skies.

On the roof, there was only he and the night. Sometimes so very dark, with clouds that would hide the stars, and the moon not there to be seen; on other days, there was a full moon, a clear sky, and he would feel protected and even revealed, like there were eyes above watching, watching intensely and always. And he would take it. Take whatever the night offered, rain and cold, or the warmth of a late summer breeze. He wouldn't run, never run.

Bruce had to believe that the night would be his benefactor.

Another night on the rooftop.

He had slept on the blanket he brought, the hard tiles against his back – but that didn't bother him, not anymore. Woke up to see the last lights of the stars, now only pale lamps that were fading away… The horizon ahead was pure gold, the sun intensity so violent that no other star could compete… Another day. Another day for Bruce Wayne, another morning to endure people he didn't like, another morning to live in such a shallow environment.

But another day that would get him closer to his objective. Another day to learn, to observe, to train his mind and body. One more day he would survive, one more day that would help him figure it out…

And the day would come, finally the day in which he would be strong enough to shape his own destiny.

It was closer, closer every day.

It was his fifteenth birthday.

* * *

As he entered his room through the window, Rotzbury jumped from his own bed.

"Where were you, Wayne?" The boy - a pale skinned, blond, small young man – still wore his blue pajamas and the bracers he slept with every night. His hair was a mess, and his voice faltered in sudden changes of tone, words crashing in the metal pieces inside his apparently too small mouth. "They are coming!"

Bruce sighed.

"Who is?", he asked just as he closed the window behind him and turned to face his roommate.

"You know _who_", Rotzbury's tone hit its highest pitch, and an evident expression of disgust twitched his lips. "Dalls and his bunch, of course..."

"Of course." Allowing himself a half-smile, Bruce opened his closet and took one of his uniforms, the set of jacket-paints-shirt-belt-tie perfectly neat and cared, ready in a hanger, as he always previously prepared every night.

"They will be here any second...!"

Kneeling on the floor, Bruce reached for his shoes under his bed, black and polished, shining like they had just been bought – a feeling that would be reassured by the fact that they were kept inside their box.

"I heard them down the hall", the blond boy, in his undeniable Maine accent, proceeded. "Carrying _ropes_, and some kind of sleeping bag, I think!" He knelled next to Wayne, his thin, small face so near that Bruce could smell his morning breath. "And they talked about the _lake_, too."

Daniel Rotzbury had blue-grey eyes, faintly-colored, and they had an ashen appearance; he was expressive in his lightly built body, the way he moved his hands while speaking, his thick eyebrows frowning and raising, the way he spit words even before completely formulate them... but his eyes, his eyes ruined everything. Those pale eyes, too visible even when he wore glasses, eyes that would always seem sad and helpless, eyes that made his face look so much older, and added seriousness to any statement of that fifteen-years-old. In the end, it didn't matter how expressive Rotzbury was, his tone, his intention: the eyes would always turn his words into bitter, pessimist prophecies.

"It's alright, Danny", Bruce placed a hand over Rotzbury's shoulder, serving both as reassurance to his colleague and support for him to stand, "I won't be here when they come."

"What?" Daniel remained on his knees, watching Bruce from bellow. "You won't be here..."

"That's right." He turned to the window again, the hanger with his clothes around his left wrist, the shoes pressed under his arm. Using his right hand, he opened the window once again.

"Are... are you..."

"Well, I can't be here, can I?" Bruce couldn't avoid a slight irritation in his voice, much of it caused not by Daniel's insistent inquiry, but by the fact that it bothered him that Rotzbury remained on his knees, in a pose that much reminded a humble servant, not his teenage roommate. "Not unless I want a cold bath in the lake..."

He passed his right leg over the window frame, and was about to follow it with the rest of his body when Daniel grabbed his arm:

"Bruce, you can't! No one is allowed out of the dormitory building before six! If you go, they will come and see you're not in bed..."

"... and they won't be able to do a thing about it, Danny." Contemplating Daniel's shocked and confused expression, Bruce couldn't avoid another half-smile. "They can't tell on me, Rotzbury! They can't just say they were broking into my room to prank me... Especially when the prank involves tying someone and throwing him in the lake."

Daniel unhanded his arm:

"Oh... oh, that's... it's brilliant, Wayne..." He smiled in dazed pleasure, his eyes on Bruce, but his mind somewhere else: "Imagine their faces...!"

"Yeah, well, you can do better than imagine..." Bruce finally went through the window, his entire body supported by nothing more than the firm grip of his fingers and toes on the ancient brick wall of the building. "You can actually _see_ it."

Rotzbury's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped a few inches.

"But... but I can't just _stay_ here! I mean, they'll get _furious_ when they don't see you...!"

"Don't worry", he moved away from the window with incredible grace and speed, easily climbing the six feet that separated him from the roof above. "Just tell them I was so scared I had to jump..."

"No! No, camon, Bruce! Hey!" Daniel already had the upper half of his body outside, a vicious breeze freezing his unprotected ears. He followed the progress of his roommate until he lost him from sight, when the young Wayne was already crawling over the ceiling of red tiles. For a second Daniel seemed encouraged to follow, his fingers clenched around the window frame, one knee insinuating that it could climb out... but then Rotzbury looked down. Fifteen feet were between the young man and the ground, a solid ground of stone pavement and harsh appearance. "Oh, man..."

Daniel stepped away from the window and returned to his bed, seating on it while apprehensively glancing at his room's door. There were sounds outside, steps that were meant to be silent, voices in quiet murmurs, the distinctive sound of one of the boys turning the knob...

And Rotzbury, almost sixteen, laid on the carpet and rolled under his bed, closing his eyes and biting his lower lip, trying to keep himself from crying.

* * *

Lunch was usually torturing enough, but, as Bruce Wayne had guessed, the fact that it was his birthday made it even worst.

He purposely finished his math quiz as fast as he could, giving Professor Radamsh no reason to keep him in class. Radamsh was a good teacher, and, although not the most brilliant mathematician, capable of entertaining Bruce with his mathematical and logical challenges. However, the reason that made him one of Bruce's favorite professors had been, since the first days of class, the way Radamsh always seemed aloof and unreachable to all but his math, always paying less attention to the students family names than to their learning abilities. One of the few people in Pencey that had never reminded Bruce his father had been an honor student in that same school, Radamsh, in his own way, appeared to have a good opinion about the young Wayne, although based solely in the impressive academic achievements of the boy, and _that_ he had no problems in praising:

"Aced another test, Mr. Wayne?" He had just received the sheet of paper Bruce handed him, briefly glancing at it with a satisfied smile. "Hm... is this a derivative?"

"Sir, can I...?"

The professor interrupted him:

"That's an unusual approach to the problem, isn't it? I don't think I've taught this in class, have I?" He was staring at the paper with an intrigued expression, his right hand scratching his dark beard.

"No, sir." Standing in front of the professor's table, Bruce impatiently exchanged the weight of his body from one foot to the other. "Sir, may I be excused?"

"No, no... No, I don't think I did... This is just Algebra I, we don't teach that in our freshmen classes, do we?"

"Sir..."

"Interesting, Mr. Wayne, very interesting." He raised his glance from the test to finally see his student. "I must ask you again: don't you want to join my advanced class for gifted students?"

_Ninth time_, Bruce evoked his mental count. Ten weeks since classes begun, and Professor Radamsh had asked him nine times if he wasn't interested in that program.

"No, sir... I don't think so." He forced a polite smile, causing the teacher to answer in the same way, although followed by a deep sigh.

"No... Again 'no'." He observed the boy for a few seconds, his dark eyes studying Bruce's features. "I hope this is not because you are aiming for a career in football or hockey, Mr. Wayne. You see, a sport's career depends on many things, and while I heard you're quite talented in the field, you must consider that a math talent like yours is much harder to find than a good quarterback."

Bruce pursed his lips. "I know, sir."

"And, in fact, I think I can't be wrong when I tell you that your intellect will do a lot more for mankind than another NFL baboon."

"Yes, sir", he obediently agreed. Behind him, a muffled, and yet distinguished giggle broke the silence in the classroom. Professor Radamsh stood up, briefly searching for the source of noise, but without success. He had to satisfy himself with a severe 'hush' given while wearing his most austere expression, although Bruce, without having to turn or think, knew too well which of his colleagues had been wasting the test time eavesdropping on other people conversation. "_Dalls_", he pointed as a mental note.

"Professor, may I go?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, you may." He still had his eyes on the class, glancing with suspicion at the dozen boys that seemed deeply concentrated in their work.

"Thank you, sir." Bruce immediately turned to leave, but was forced to stop by a hand on his left shoulder.

"Wait", the professor said, wrinkled eyebrows and seriousness in his features. "Just wait for me outside, Wayne."

It was exactly what Bruce _didn't_ want to hear; he had plans for lunch – getting his food while the refectory was still deserted, and eating his meal in the isolation of the football field -, and it would all be ruined if he had to stay until the regular lunch break. He tried to come up with a quick and convincing excuse:

"Actually, Professor, I was hoping to have a bit of free time before lunch; today _is_ my birthday, and..."

"I know." The shadow of a timid grin showed in Radamsh's lips. "Please, wait."

The young man didn't find in him the strength to deny his teacher's request – he feared that too many refusals could make the usually cooperative professor less benevolent. Radamsh was, after all, one of the few people Bruce _liked_ in the Pencey, and it would be fairly ironic – and sad – if the mutual acceptance ended like that: because the teacher cared too much. _"If you don't want people to judge you exclusively by your name or money, Master Bruce"_, Alfred used to say, _"perhaps you should allow them to know the person behind this name and money."_

"Okay", he agreed with a sigh.

Leaving the room, Bruce sat on one of the benches in the extensive hallway, the large salon that led to half a dozen classrooms. "Queen Building of Applied Science", a fancy name for an equally fancy building, a two pavement construction built in rococo style. Rumor says that Star City's magnate Robert Queen, president of Queen Industries, had donated all the money for the most recent – and expensive – improvements in the Applied Science building after his son caused a great amount of trouble in the Pencey. He had been expelled, the seniors that were his colleagues would say; however, the generous contribution from his father managed to convince Principal Alberdin that was best to keep out of the records all the unflattering achievements of the youngest Queen.

Would his own father, Bruce considered, use their money like that? If his parents haven't died, and he was just another rich and spoiled brat – would he become one, if his parents were alive? -, he could have become a truly trouble maker. Maybe he would be inclined to break things, or be rude to others... like so many other boys in the Pencey did. What would his father do? He wouldn't, Bruce knew, avoid paying compensation for any damages or losses his son might cause; no, Thomas Wayne had always been so _correct_, Alfred used to say. Still, could he, for shame or pity, or maybe because he loved Bruce so much, try to _hide_ his faults by paying people to shut up? Would he be over-protective, or blind to his son's mistakes?

No... This just didn't sound like his father. Thomas Wayne was a good man, people would always say. He wasn't shallow, or vain. No, he was a _good person_ wasn't he? A doctor, one that worked too hard, despite the fact he was one of the richest men in the world. Trying to help people, caring for others, and humble. Humble, and simple enough to even walk on the streets of Gotham like any other man, take the train, use the public transport, dismiss his limousine and chauffeur, and take his family into an alley, crossing a dark alley like... like there was nothing to worry...

"Hey, Wayne!"

Bruce raised his eyes from the floor to look at the person that had just approached the bench he sat on, and now stood in front of him.

"What's with you? You look like shit, man!"

His name was Caden Dalls and he was, in most things, a regular sample of a Pencey pupil. Between bullying other boys and sharing pornographic magazines with his friends, Caden seemed to arrange his schedule in a way that didn't harm his grades or his participation in extra-curricular activities, a relative success that contributed only in turning him into a confident and arrogant scumbag - or at least that was Bruce's opinion. Not that he and Dalls had ever had an argument, so much as a disagreement, but he had known it since the first time he laid eyes on his colleague: Caden Dalls was a low and vile person, one that shouldn't be trusted, and from who was probably best to keep a safe distance. Unfortunately, the destiny had not been generous to Bruce, and fate wanted that Caden, among all the boys in his year, shared with Bruce exactly the same classes and activities. From Algebra to football, including even Advanced German and a study group about forensic science, there was Dalls: always following everything with careless attention, doing just the amount of work necessary to avoid serious problems and never one bit more. Except for football, Caden Dalls didn't seem interested in any academic subject, and would happily delegate his tasks to someone else; however, he was also smart enough to know where safe ground for him to walk on was, and would rarely give an actual motive for someone to complain or even dislike him. Excluding the kids he was constantly picking on - Rotzbury included, and placed on the top of the list -, most people in the Pencey were fond of the young Dalls, a tall and good looking boy that usually spoke in a paused, soft tone, who carried a placid smile while walking in the corridors, and who never missed a chance of offering a friendly wave and a gentle hello to some carefully selected colleagues - Bruce included.

"Headache", he quickly answered, hoping that would end the conversation without greater development.

"Really? On your birthday? Bummer..."

Without asking for permission or waiting for an invitation, Caden sat next to Bruce on the wood bench.

"Need an aspirin or something like that?" He shoved his hand inside his backpack, like he was searching for something. "I might have a pill with me..."

"No need", Bruce said and crossed his arms.

"Sure? 'Cause it sucks to be sick in a special occasion like today..."

Taking a deep breath, Bruce checked his watch with obvious impatience. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, I know." In silence Caden stared at Bruce, dark eyes that, when watched for long, spoke of unreadable intentions and undisguisable malice. A few seconds passed, both boys didn't say a word; sounds of voices in a distance, and the regular and heavy steps of Professor Radamsh inside class marked time in an unnerving way. Bruce laid his back on the wall behind him, he himself blankly staring at the floor. This was a game, he knew, a game of persistence and patience. An awkward silence, the uncomfortable proximity of Dalls on his side: a test. It would be easy to get up and leave, or surrender to the mediocre option of making small talk - to endure the silence, that was always a challenge. People don't deal well with that, Bruce had learned, the pressure of being in one's presence and endure it without trying to divert the attention to someone or something else. Silence seemed to _hurt_ people, they always making all they could to break it... Why? To have nothing to say was even worst than saying stupid, rude, offensive things?

Or maybe, Bruce wondered, silence was too close to solitude. Maybe you needed to speak because having your words reaching someone else reminded you were not alone... And loneliness, of course, was a scary thing; most people were only aware of their existence, of their importance, of who they _were_ when seeing themselves through other people eyes... And so, they feared the silence. They feared the solitude of being only in their own company. With their own thoughts, the good and the bad, seeing who they in fact were when away of other people judging eyes.

"So", Dalls said after no more than ten seconds (_which, on the other hand,_ was _more than most people endure_, was Bruce's thought), "where were you this morning?"

"This morning? In my room, where else?" His tone was cynical, and he didn't make the smallest effort to disguise it.

Caden smiled, a smile of amusement and complicity - but only on the surface. Behind the apparently friendly act, Bruce could see resentment and anger.

"Camon, Wayne...!" He said it in an almost perfect performance of humble innocence. He lowered his tone, turning his voice into a compassed whisper. "I don't know how, but you left the dorm without anyone seeing you... I mean, I'm not complaining... It ruined our surprised for you, but..."

"_Surprise_, hm?"

Dalls smiled, a smile almost as cynical as Bruce's tone had been. "You know... we always have a something cool planned for birthdays."

"Cool? Yeah, right. I remember. It must have been pretty _cool_ for Reynolds when you guys took his clothes and let him naked outside. Not as fun as when you gave Justin Nilton-Garris a new _piercing_, of course..."

"That was an accident! We were just pretending, but he kept struggling...!"

"Who wouldn't?" Any attempt of keeping his tone low and controlled had been ruined: Bruce couldn't avoid the rage in his voice. "I left the room, Dalls, because I wasn't interested in your games, jokes, pranks, whatever you call it. I'm not here to make friends, especially friends like _you_."

He watched as Caden's face was taken by a vividly red tone, his lips pressed together in a line of rage, teeth clenched as his jaw bone twitched, narrowed eyes staring in cold anger.

"I'm not afraid of you, Dalls", Bruce proceeded in a regular tone, his voice again assuming the neutral tone he usually exhibited. "You can't touch me. Not you, not anyone else in here."

"Wayne..." Caden's voice disturbingly reminded an animalistic grunt. "You think you're something else, don't you? I'll show you..."

The classroom's door suddenly opening interrupted Dalls' threatening statement.

"What's happening here?" Professor Radamsh had a preoccupied expression.

Both boys answered at once:

"Nothing", they said, despite the fact no one in a sane conscience could believe it.

The teacher allowed his glance to go from Bruce to Caden, and then back. He sighed, clearly frustrated, but didn't investigate the incident further - he simply said:

"Wayne, inside; Dalls..." He hesitated for a moment, perhaps realizing he had less to say than he first guessed. Still, the professor didn't allow himself to be without words. "Don't you have somewhere else to go?"

"Actually..."

"I don't want to know. Just leave, and don't disturb the other classes."

A resentful look was Caden's only response before walking away. Radamsh's glance followed the student until he left the hall, and then turned to look at Bruce Wayne, who stood behind him in the room that now had only unoccupied desks and a pile of tests over the teacher's table.

Now facing the teacher, Bruce felt compelled to speak:

"About that, professor, I'm not trying to cause trouble..."

"I don't care", he interrupted the boy. "I never get involved in this kind of thing, Mr. Wayne. I'm not a counselor, and I just can't offer any advice to this sort of problem... if there is a problem, of course."

The statement sounded a lot like a question to Bruce's ears, and he was quick to answer it:

"No, sir; there's no problem."

"Good." He approached his own desk, and Bruce heard the distinctive sound of a drawer being opened. Seconds later, the teacher stretched an arm in Bruce's direction, holding a red cover book in his hand.

"Ah... Is this..." Bruce gasped, unable to finish the sentence.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, this is for you." If the professor was uncomfortable or embarrassed, he disguised it pretty well in his unremarkable half-smile.

Bruce stood frozen where he was, unable to move and, no doubt, completely clueless about what to do. Radamsh's gesture caught him by surprise, and he saw himself in a situation he was unprepared for: of all people in the Pencey, he never expected his math teacher to be the one to give him a birthday present.

"Take it, Wayne", he extended the book once again, "it wont bite, I promise."

_And now a joke_, Bruce thought in bitter astonishment. Still, he grabbed the book with both hands, immediately noticing by the cover and general appearance of it that it was probably an old edition of the title. He glanced at it for a moment, painfully aware that Radamsh observed his every single reaction. _Men of Mathematics_, said the words on the cover, and that caught his attention; he opened the book and read on the first page: 1937, First Edition, signed by Eric Temple Bell, the author.

"Professor... I can't, this is too much..."

"Nonsense." He had his hands behind his back, and his smile gave place to the usual grave expression he wore. "This one I tumbled on during a trip to Metropolis, and I had to buy it; however, I still have the edition my father gave me, and, quite frankly, it's far more special to me - the book I read as a boy that made me want to be a mathematician, you know?"

"I see."

"I just hope the book inspires you somehow, Mr. Wayne; you're so talented, and at such a young age... although, for 'men of mathematics', this is natural, of course." He frowned as he solemnly stared at the boy. "My intentions aren't so noble, Mr. Wayne... You are, no doubt, one of the brightest students I had under my care; I expect much from you."

Disconcerted, Bruce managed nothing but to mumble:

"Sir... I don't... I mean..." He stopped for a moment, silently returning his teacher's stare. Then, regaining his self-control, he spoke in a steady, direct tone. "Many people expect much from me, professor. And I can't possibly please everyone."

The teacher pursed his lips, and his eyes carried an evaluative look. However, he said nothing.

"I appreciated the book, Professor. It's a great present... maybe more than I deserve. Still..." He tapped his fingers on the red hard cover. "Thank you very much."

Bruce nodded his head, a simple and brief gesture of appreciation. He then turned to leave, but walked no more than two steps before he heard Radamsh's deep voice again:

"I personally recommend the chapter about Évariste Galois, Mr. Wayne; it's one of my personal favorites."

Glancing over his shoulder, Bruce saw the teacher smiling - now a gentle, open smile. "They say the book is too romantic", he proceeded, "but isn't it what makes a story great?"

"Yes, Professor. I'll make sure I'll read it first."

"Please, do it", he said. "For some reason, you remind me the young Galois so much."

Bruce couldn't avoid an embarrassed smile. "Well, I'm flattered... although, I'm afraid, I can't compare to his genius."

"'_This pupil is sometimes obscure in expressing his ideas, but he is intelligent and shows a remarkable spirit of research_.'" Radamsh sat on his chair, a wondering expression on his face. "That's what one of Galois' examiners wrote about him."

"Interesting", Bruce remarked with sincerity.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, it is; and again, words I could have used myself..." He waved a hand. "You may go, now. Lunch time will be over soon, and it seemed you had plans, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

But he didn't move.

"Is there anything else, Mr. Wayne?"

The boy stared at his teacher with seriousness. Taking a deep breath, and in what appeared to be a great effort, he managed to say:

"I really appreciated it, Professor... The book, I mean", he briefly glanced down at the object in his hands, "and everything else, by the way. I'm sorry if I can't live up to your expectati..."

"Enough, Wayne." Radamsh interrupted him abruptly, but his tone was gentle and his expression kind. "You're too young to be worrying about this sort of thing, boy... Wait until you're an adult, with people depending on you; you'll have to worry about disappointing people then." He smiled. "Don't waste your time with an old man like me, not in your fifteenth birthday."

Bruce said nothing, as he merely nodded his head and returned his teacher's smile. He left, eyes on his shoes as he walked the long corridors of the building, his steps echoing in the empty halls. Radamsh's words, however, were the one thing echoing in his mind: _"You're too young to be worrying about this sort of thing, boy... Wait until you're an adult, with people depending on you"._ Oh, people would always say things like that! They would always say he didn't have to worry, and they would say... they would say he doesn't have _responsibilities_ now, obligations to no one but himself...

They had no idea, of course. They didn't know about the Promise.

* * *

The day proceeded in a slow and painful pace: lunch hour became a torment, with dozens of people he didn't like, not even knew, following him around to congratulate him for something as trivial as his birthday. In his English class, where the assignment was to discuss George Orwell's "1984" in pairs, and then produce a critical review, he was unfortunate enough - his appointed partner was Samuel Vreeland, also from Gotham, someone who knew too much about the Wayne Family and wasn't afraid of asking:

"What did you get for your birthday?"

Bruce raised his eyes from the notebook he had been taking notes on.

"Nothing", he said in a emotionless tone, then returning to his writing.

"_Nothing?_" Vreeland seemed in shock. "No way! I'm sure you got _tons_ of stuff!"

"No", he simply answered. "Now, regarding the dystopia in '1984'..."

"The what?"

"_Dystopia_", Bruce repeated slowly. "Professor Haim _just_ explained it."

"Did he?" He smiled what was meant to be, Bruce was sure, a smart, 'know-it-all' kind of smile; however, it only seemed to make Samuel look dumber - if possible. "I wasn't paying attention, you know?"

"So it seems." He sighed. "Again... the society described in the book is totalitarian, and it aims for the complete annulment of individual freedom and ideas, thus leading to the point that homogeneity..."

"Whatever. So, my cousin Veronica was telling me you have a _car_ collection, with Porshes and Ferraris..."

"I _don't_ have a collection. My _father_ had a couple antique sport cars, but it's hardly a collection."

"So you _do_ have cars?" His eyes widened in an expression Bruce could only understand as excitement, although it was so much closer to stupidity. "Damn, you're so lucky, Wayne! You know, if you go home for Thanksgiving, maybe we could..."

"I'm not." He said in an abrupt, definitive tone. Vreeland stared at him with an intrigued look, a lot like a child that doesn't comprehend why he's being yelled at. "Can we go back to the assignment?"

"Okay, okay..." Samuel's expression told that, finally, he was realizing Wayne wasn't in the disposition for small talk. He placed both hands under his chin, and all the excitement on his face seemed to have left - boredom was the only thing that remained. "Just write _the Big Brother is evil_ and be done with it... What a stupid idea..."

"Stupid?"

The boy took a deep breath, leaning on his chair in self-abandon and indolence:

"Yeah, it's stupid! And _wrong_, of course... I mean, no body can, you now, watch other people like that, like, _all the time_..."

"There are all kinds of people", Bruce said even before thinking about his words. "_Dangerous_ people, criminals, crazies..."

"Ah, all right...! Yeah, okay, if you're talking about criminals and crazies... Guys like, from Arkham or Blackgate..."

"Or people with power."

Vreeland looked confused. "People with power? Like... supervillains?"

"_And_ superheroes, of course. Anyone with lots of power... politician, presidents of corporations, the police... people that could use their power to take advantage, or to corrupt, to use any sort of oppressive social control."

Samuel blankly stared at Bruce, who ignored him and just kept talking:

"People that have the _means_ to do good things most of the time just use it to their own interest; that's exactly what is wrong in this world." He lowered his eyes to the notebook again, writing with great speed and fury. "Most people that have power make ill-usage of it... Selfish, ignorant, just _bad_... the fact remains that few should be allowed to have power." He stopped writing, thought for a moment, and than started again. "Or maybe _none_. One should only have the power he truly worked for, power he proved he can responsibly handle..."

"You're sounding like a communist, Wayne."

"And you sound like you don't really know what communism is."

"Hey...!"

Professor Haim's voice rose above Vreeland's poor objections:

"Mr. Wayne", he called in his rather exhilarated and characteristic tone. Joseph Haim was, no doubt, a devoted teacher, and was constantly struggling to awake in his student the same enthusiasm he had for literature and Philisophy; a fight that, when considering pupils like Samuel Vreeland, was so often fruitless.

"Phone call for you", the teacher said as he pointed at the door. "You can take it down stairs."

"Thank you, Professor."

Bruce left a displeased Samuel Vreeland behind, and went down stairs where there was a phone cabin. He entered it and closed the door behind him, providing some privacy and a fairly good acoustic isolation, and took the phone:

"Wayne speaking", he solemnly said.

"Ah, Master Bruce", a familiar voice answered, "finally I have been able to reach you!"

In the solitude of the phone cabin, Bruce allowed himself a smile. "Hey, Alfred."

"'Hey' indeed, young sir. It _is _your birthday after all, isn't it?"

"Never mind that..."

"I _always_ mind it, sir; otherwise, you wouldn't even remember it."

"I wish", Bruce said in a sigh, "but it's impossible to forget it in here. There isn't a soul in this place that doesn't seem to know today is my birthday..."

"Sounds like a conspiracy, Master Bruce."

"I mean it, Alfred; it's really annoying, all these people I don't like - and who obviously don't like me back - congratulating me for being born. Honestly..."

"Well, Master Bruce, you should at least consider the possibility that people in fact _care_ about you, and that they are pleased by your existence and the privilege of sharing their time with you." He paused for a moment. "Or is it so impossible that you, being intelligent and good-looking, not to mention athletic and educated, could be liked by other people?"

"Alfred..."

"All right, all right, I will drop the subject. I won't even say 'congratulations on your birthday, Master Bruce', neither will I wish you many more."

Bruce nodded his head, a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Okay, okay... Thank you, Alfred."

"You are most welcomed."

"And since we are on the subject of special occasions", the young man said, his voice assuming a grave and low tone, "did you manage to get in touch with that person?"

Alfred's tone was also sober, although it showed nothing of the excitement insinuated in Bruce's words. "In a matter of fact, young sir, _yes_, I got in touch with that man; he's somewhat rude, I warn you, and..."

"... and did you tell him about my proposition?" Feeling his hear jumping in his chest, Bruce passed the phone from an ear to another, noticing the sweat on his hands and forehead. He bit his lower lip, then holding his breath: the anticipation for an answer Alfred was taking to long to give.

On the other side of the line, Alfred's deep breath was perfectly audible.

"I told him everything, Master Wayne... I showed him the letter, and made sure to prove your good will by giving him the antique sword you mentioned - that pleased him a lot, I must say."

"Great." That wasn't_ exactly_ what he wanted to know, but accepted it as part of the story that should end as he wished. "He agreed, then?"

Alfred's hesitation - just a second, no more - was enough for him to deduce the answer to his question.

"He said no, didn't he?"

Now the butler quickly added:

"He will _think _about it, Master Bruce; that's what he said...! He didn't give a definitive answer, and you shouldn't jump into conclusions..."

"It means no, Alfred." Without even noticing what he was doing, Bruce leaned forward; his forehead touched the glass of the cabin, and he could envision the world outside: the hall of a private school, with young men walking on it's corridors as they dreamed nothing else but success in academic life and an attractive girlfriend... what world was that? Boys that aimed for college acceptance as that was the main goal of their lives, kids that felt like a football game was a matter of life or death. To learn Biology and French, hang out with boys of his age, listen to music, go to the movies, play sports_... No. No, this can't be my life_.

"Master Bruce", it was Alfred's voice on the phone, but as intrusive as it was in his mind, "you are fifteen now. I understand you have goals and dreams, but is it so unthinkable for you the possibility of living like a typical teenager of your age, enjoying your boyhood like...?"

"I _can't_, Alfred", he said through clenched teeth, "I can't."

"Young sir, why...?"

"I just... can't."

Silence followed the sentence. None of them spoke for almost an entire minute - Alfred's steady breath on one side, Bruce with his forehead pressed against the glass, eyes shut and his mouth pressed in a thin, straight line.

"Master Bruce", Alfred finally manifested, "there is the matter of Nanda Parbat."

The boy opened his eyes. "Nanda Parbat? Oh, Alfred, you told me to forget about it, the place is unreachable..."

"Actually, young sir, in my visit to The Sensei I was fortunate enough to come across another traveler... A young Tibetan mountain guide whose sister was suffering from a degenerative disease."

"Sounds terrible."

"Yes, indeed, but the outcome is not so tragical as you might think, Master Bruce. It just happened, you know, that the condition the girl was suffering of was none other than a rare liver disease that has been researched in..."

"... Wayne MedLabs." Bruce turned his whole attention to the phone again. "Did you tell them that?"

"I took a greater liberty, Master Wayne: I arranged with Lucius a place for the girl in the program, and she has been under his care for a few weeks now - with great results, I must say."

"Well... and do you think her brother...?"

"He did mention Nanda Parbat, young sir. Of course, he rarely takes people that way, but for you... he might make an exception."

"No, Alfred, for_ you_." He couldn't contain his excitement. "You're awesome, Alfred...!"

"Awesome. Right. I think I'll take it as a compliment..." He sighed. "But don't get your hopes too high, young sir; it's just a possibility..."

"Yes, yes, I know." again his heartbeat accelerated, but the feeling was a completely different one.

"And please, Master Bruce, since you are in a better mood, you could do me a favor..."

"Anything, Alfred."

"Your Principal called me earlier today, just to communicate this: it seems that in their birthdays students are allowed to go out and have fun, stay up late, things like that. It's just one night, and just on birthdays, and, of course, they need permission from their parents or wards…"

"Oh, Alfred..." Bruce knew the request that was about to come, and his stomach was already revolving.

"Just for _one_ night, Master Bruce, can't you go out with a few friends and have fun, like boys of your age do?" His voice was a soft whisper. "One night, Master Bruce..."

"I have so much to do, Alfred..."

"Just _try_, Master Bruce; you don't even have to enjoy it too much."

"Okay", he surrendered, "I'll try."

"It's all I wanted to hear."

Again Bruce nodded his head, again confused between amusement and exasperation. "I gotta go, Alfred. Thank you again."

"You are welcomed, Master Bruce... and have a nice evening."

The young man ignored the last sentence, and hung up the phone. He turned to leave, a smile on his face, and all because of this name: Nanda Parbat. Training ground for the greatest monk-warriors, legend said. A hidden temple, secret to the rest of the world, where only the most virtuous and pure fighters were allowed. Many searched its secrets, few had found; could be that he would be one of the few that were lucky and capable enough?

"Hey, Bruce", someone touched his right shoulder and called him.

He turned to see Daniel Rotzbury, his roommate, standing behind him.

"Danny", he said while noticing that Rotxbury looked even more pale and tame than the usual. Not only that, but his left wrist was immobilized in bandages, and his left cheek had a few scratches. "What happened to you?"

"What? This?" He stared at his wrist like he was himself surprised to find it wrapped in bandages. "Nothing much... I fell, that's all. Hurt my face too."

"Fell, hm?" Something in Daniel's tone made the story completely unbelievable. "Sure about that?"

"'Course I am", his expression turned into a heavy mask of offense. "Why would I lie?"

_Why would you, indeed? _Bruce couldn't find a single good reason for Daniel to lie, but the fact remained: he _was _lying.

"I just wanted to give you this", Daniel said as he offered Bruce a brown pack.

"What is it?"

"Moron. It's a birthday present, I can't just _tell_ you! You've to open it, of course."

Bruce glanced at Rotzbury with suspicion, but the boy just stood where he was, with a placid smile on his lips. It wasn't a joke, Bruce realized; like Professor Radamsh had done earlier, Daniel was also showing he had much more affection for his roommate than he regularly appear - or at least more than Bruce supposed.

He ripped the brown paper at once, revealing the content as black leather jacket.

"Wow..." Bruce said as he looked at the coat on his hands, "this is nice!"

"Nice? No, no, it's excellent! My mother send it from Europe; Italian." He frowned, suddenly looking worried. "I hope it fits..."

Bruce, on the other hand, was without words. Another expensive, nice present, and he didn't know how to thank.

"Well, I'm glad you liked", Rotzbury smiled. "Anyway, that's all. I've got homework to do, and then another reunion of the Chess Club, so..."

"Danny", Bruce said, telling himself that he shouldn't think too much about it, or he might loose his sudden disposition, "would you like to go out tonight?"

"What?" Rotzbury's eyes widened behind his glasses.

"It _is_ my birthday..." Now Bruce was thinking Alfred, at least, would be proud. "I'm allowed to go to town, and even stay after ten."

An awkward silence hung between them. And, Bruce realized, it was up to him to break it.

"Maybe we could go to town and... well, eat something... or something like that."

Rotzbury's smile seemed to extend all over his face.

"A birthday party?"

"I wouldn't call it a party, but, well... yeah."

"Count me in", he said it too loud, almost yelling the words at Bruce.

"All right", he agreed, thinking it was best to end the conversation before regretting the invitation. "I see you later, then."

"Later!" Rotzbury waved as he walked away, a silly smile on his lips. _Geez_, Bruce wondered, _is Danny that lonely? _He knew his roommate was an outsider, of course, and he had noticed how Rotzbury was never invited for anything... but Bruce never considered it could be that much of a problem. For a boy like him, that wanted nothing but to be left in peace, Daniel's situation looked more like a blessing than a curse.

_I__ have to work on my capacity in psychological analyses_, he concluded. Checking on his watch, he saw it was only three o'clock – more than enough time to go to the library and have a look in a few books about the subject. Yes, in the end, even something as trivial as this – his birthday – could be an opportunity to learn and train.

And, of course, he wouldn't in anyway take it for granted.


End file.
